Innocent Until Proven Guilty
by Drowning in Ice
Summary: Marluxia, fed up with the way people talk about him and Vexen, tries to explain and prove his partial innocence. 411, rated for, like, one sentence.


I do not own Kingdom Hearts or any related characters.

To start off, I'd like you all to know that I'm not trying to chew people out for the way they characterize Marluxia; I'm guilty of the "crimes" mentioned here as well. This is to be taken as a joke, because we really need some more "less serious" 411 here lately.

* * *

There seems to be much speculation about what goes on between Vexen and myself, but there is a very common trend among the gossip I simply _cannot_ stand a moment longer. I'm quite certain the vast majority of you are guilty of accusing me of this, and today, I _demand_ my innocence.

I am _not_ the whore of our relationship!

Such claims are so preposterous I can barely believe I must argue their falsehood. Though, I must give you the benefit of knowing that the very most basic form of the idea is not completely unbelievable. Of course, I am in the unaging body of a man in his late twenties. I may not be a hormone-maddened teenager, but I do consider my sexual appetite to be well on the healthy side. Besides, I know how gorgeous I happen to be; I suppose I should have expected that people would adhere to the age-old myth that the pretty ones are always the sluts.

Regardless, if you knew the true inner workings of our relationship, you would think the concept an extremely silly rumor as well, almost as laughable as imagining Lexaeus sleeping around on Zexion. Odd picture, yes? That is _exactly_ what I think about my situation!

I am a very busy man. I have second-in-command work to do, missions to complete, a very spoiled garden to keep happy, and plans to kill Xemnas to weave. By the way, if you consider breathing a word about that last bit, I have no problem killing you as well. But back to the topic, I simply have too much to do in a day to spend my time chasing skirts (or more correctly, pants in my case). Instead, they came to me in the form of that kinky old whore Vexen.

And I mean that "kinky" comment as well. I have an inkling that someone out there does not believe me.

Fine, I'll explain something. Humanoid Nobodies are not rare, but they often are so mentally or physically weak or generally useless that they end up turned into Dusks or requested for use as a test subject by Vexen. (I've seen so many failed experiments on returning hearts to Nobodies I could write a book full of the different results of failures.)

So my question to you is this: What would you call strapping someone to a lab table, shooting seventeen (yes, _seventeen_) different chemicals into his arm, and inviting me in for a threesome other than "kinky?"

Yes, I did accept the numerous offers if you must know! I'm busy, not castrated! And if you even think to make a comment about my hair or element, you will immediately die!

And as a follow-up to what I was saying before, I believe I owe Vexen a little more credit than I normally do. He sometimes (more than sometimes...) managed to put someone trickier in the position of his failed experiments' test subjects. I admit that I enjoyed every minute of the fun we had with Roxas, who had no clue how fortunate he was to receive only eight shots. Still, that was Vexen's idea; I just indulged in what was laid out before me. And Demyx, who was far more willing than I would have expected, received a paltry three injections.

And I would very much like to know how Axel ended up on that table one day and Saïx three weeks later!

Many people mention a need for control I might have during sex. That, actually, is rather true, though few know the reasons why. I must have control; before Vexen, I had never _heard_ of someone bottoming with such authority! I _refuse_ to be reduced to a toy for some half-crazy scientist, no matter how much I like him! There always was an odd cycle of control. One day, I'm shoving him to the wall and tearing off his clothes after he's teased me far too much; the next, he's on top, riding me like a damned race horse, leaving me too overcome with pleasure to try to gain any kind of upper hand.

With this kind of providing to be done, who has _time_ to be the nympho of the relationship? I only hope Vexen has been bothered with enough assignments to keep him busy for at least the final hours of the day.

"Good evening, Number XI."

Speak of the devil, hiding behind that mask of professionalism. For lack of more dignified terms, all I have to say is _shit._


End file.
